


Three Good Omens / Sherlock Ficlets

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Titles:</b> Meet At Nine Precisely / Pushing It / Why We Fight</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Good Omens / Sherlock Ficlets

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in June of 2011.

 

**Meet At Nine Precisely**

"That," Crowley repeated to the flustered steward, pointing, "is our table."

"But, sir, with respect, as I said, you did not actually reserve it."

Aziraphale made an uncomfortable sound and shuffled, but said nothing.

"I've never had to call ahead before," Crowley insisted. "That table knows its place."

"Be that as it may," said the steward, patiently, "they are loyal longtime customers, much like your good selves. Come on, I'll seat you by the window. One table over."

Crowley didn't protest, but was because Aziraphale gave his backside a pinch.

"Not the same," he protested once they were seated. "Who do they think they are?"

Aziraphale glanced over the top of his menu and past Crowley's left shoulder at the couple occupying their usual table. "Rather important, if I'm not mistaken. That young lady hasn't put down her Palm Pilot since we arrived, and the gentleman is dictating something. Their food has gone quite cold, the poor dears."

"Oh, no you don't," said Crowley, catching the angel's wrist. "No sympathy warming!"

"But those lovely fillets of sea bass—"

" _No_!" Crowley whispered. "He'd notice."

Aziraphale frowned. "Who would?"

"The gentleman. And that's not a Palm Pilot; it's a BlackBerry. Where have _you_ been?"

"Very happy with my _fossil_ , as you call it, thank you very much. It does the books."

"Nonsense. You replaced the hard drive with some kind of kabbalistic sorcery."

"It gets the job done," Aziraphale sniffed. "Government, I should guess."

"What?"

" _Him_. Keep your voice down. The young lady has noted our attention."

"Only because he noticed first," Crowley muttered. "You don't suppose..."

Aziraphale gave him a blank look. "Suppose what?"

"[That nosy prat and his sidekick who came calling](../1053097)—"

"Ah," said Aziraphale, downing his glass of wine in one go. "That."

"Are we leaving?" asked Crowley, his stomach sinking.

"That depends," Aziraphale said, refilling his glass.

"On what?" Crowley continued cautiously.

"Whether certain nosy parties are deserving—"

"Rashid," Crowley said, waving frantically at the steward. "We're leaving."

 

 

**Pushing It**

"You can't be serious," Crowley said. "They're out; we've found nothing. Let's go."

"Tartan," Aziraphale said, settling himself even in the chair, plucking fondly at the blanket thrown over the back of it. "A man after my own heart, this Watson fellow."

"Then why don't you just wait here and see if _he_ fancies a go," said Crowley, turning on his heel. "I'm leaving. I don't like this place. That skull on the mantel is mocking me. You don't know what I've been through. Dry bones are the worst."

"Of _course_ I do, my dear," said Aziraphale, cajolingly. "Won't you come here?"

Crowley froze in his tracks, and then turned. "This won't end well."

"They're halfway across the city," Aziraphale said. "Further, even. A difficult case."

"You," Crowley said, stalking back across the room, "are a bad influence."

"Terrible," Aziraphale agreed, taking Crowley by the hips. "Absolutely _dreadful_."

"I'll bet your flat Up There has no furniture at all," said Crowley. "Or tartan."

"Come _here_ ," Aziraphale murmured, pulling him down.

They fit together too well. It wouldn't have taken some barking mad human genius to reach said conclusion. The chair _was_ comfortable, and Crowley couldn't seem to get enough of Aziraphale's teeth worrying his lower lip or his hands rucking up Crowley's shirt and oh _fuck it all_. It was over quickly, warm chests and bellies and all frantic writhing until Crowley balled his fists in the bloody tartan blanket and stifled a wail. Aziraphale sighed contently. Clean-up was never an issue. They'd leave no sign.

The skull was going to tell on them, though, Crowley was certain.

 

 

**Why We Fight**

"Not going well, is it?" asked the devastating redhead with no name.

Irene sipped her latte and shrugged.

"I can't get at the older brother. He's untouchable."

"And the younger one?" asked her companion, smiling a bloody arc.

"Shields up," said Irene, flicking her short, waxed hair back into place.

"You're not his type, then, are you?"

"He's got only one type, and as far as I can tell, the lone specimen lives with him."

The redhead frowned and took a sip of her tea, staining the white cup.

"You let me worry about that," she said. "We're old friends, he and I."


End file.
